Broken Windows

by Janet Pywell

  ‘Do you mean financially?’

  ‘Well, sort of, yes. She married a politician a few years ago, a junior minister, and he works with the homeless people. I never had much time for any of it myself. If you want a job, go out and get one; I said it to her once and she was furious. I’ve never lived on handouts—’

  ‘And her name is Liz Hunt?’

  ‘Her name was Hunter, and as far as I remember, her middle name is Elizabeth – Liz. She used it all the time before she got married. Now she uses Arlene – Arlene Harris.’

  * * *

  ‘I’ll drive,’ I say, opening the van door. ‘You find out what Raymond Harris is doing today.’

  Beside me, Peter fastens his seat belt and glances at his watch. ‘I’d imagine he’ll have gone early to the polling station with his wife, then they’ll probably wait at home until the results start coming through later tonight.’

  ‘Liz Hunt,’ I say to Peter, ‘is Arlene Elizabeth Harris – née Hunter. I googled her before I visited her at her home. Why didn’t I remember?’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Mikky.’

  ‘Call Mulhoon and get him to meet us at Raymond’s house.’

  I drive quickly, but my arms are still sore from yesterday and my back aches. I drive in silence until Peter has finished the call.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s behind it all. Why?’ I complain. ‘Why did she do it?’

  ‘That’s what we will have to ask her.’

  Peter stares ahead out of the window, and we drive the rest of the way in silence, both deep in thought.

  I can’t drive fast enough as I try to work out what would have possessed a politician’s wife to get mixed up with the Asian and the countless deaths of innocent, vulnerable children.

  * * *

  Chief Inspector Mulhoon climbs out of the parked car, leaving two uniformed police officers inside to wait for him. It’s a wintery December day, and I shiver as we meet at the entrance of Raymond Harris’s house. Although it’s mid-morning, the lights are glowing on the porch, and the brightly lit Christmas tree in the window looks welcoming.

  ‘Snow is forecast at the weekend.’ Peter stretches out his hand. ‘Thank you for meeting us, Chief Inspector.’

  Mulhoon nods and addresses me. ‘Are you alright, Mikky?’

  ‘Much better.’ I smile brightly.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ he asks. ‘We were having a debrief this morning.’

  ‘We’ll tell you inside.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Peter rings the bell.

  Arlene opens the front door, and her doll-like face has the same expression as it had the last time – mild surprise and a hint of a smile.

  ‘Is your husband in?’ Peter asks.

  ‘He’s swamped. It’s an important day.’

  Mulhoon steps forward. ‘Hello, Arlene, can you tell him we’d just like ten minutes of his time. It’s freezing out here.’

  ‘Of course, sorry, Chief Inspector, I didn’t see it was you, come in.’

  When she speaks, her features remain frozen in the same place; the result of botox, lip enhancement, and heavy make-up.

  She stands aside to let us pass, and as we stand awkwardly in the hallway, I smell alcohol on her breath.

  ‘Go through to the lounge, and I’ll tell Raymond you’re here.’

  In the lounge, the chief inspector stands beside the fireplace and rubs his hands at the open flames. Peter sits on a yellow and black patterned chaise longue and crosses his legs, and I stand at the window and watch a robin bobbing along the fence, scavenging for food and twittering happily.

  ‘Mulhoon?’ Raymond strides into the lounge smiling, but his step falters when he sees Peter and me at the window. ‘Er, hello everyone?’

  I move over to greet him.

  ‘We’ve met before, Raymond. I’m Mikky dos Santos, and this is my colleague Peter.’

  Raymond looks at Peter, but neither men make an effort to shake hands. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

  Arlene hovers at the doorway, and I walk toward her.

  ‘Please come in, Arlene. There are no secrets. Sit down there.’ I take charge and indicate for them both to sit together on the sofa. Raymond is reluctant to be bossed around in his own house, so he remains standing.

  ‘What’s this about?’ He looks at Mulhoon.

  ‘Have you voted this morning?’ Peter asks.

  Raymond looks bemused. ‘Yes, we both walked down to the polling station at nine.’

  Peter nods.

  ‘Is this to do with the election?’ Raymond looks at Mulhoon for support.

  ‘Sort of, but it’s more to do with the events from yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday?’ Raymond straightens his back.

  ‘The Asian,’ Mulhoon says.

  ‘And the Turk,’ I add.

  ‘They were both killed.’ Peter stands up.

  ‘Ah yes. I saw that on the news. It looked a very nasty operation and you did well. The night before the election, too, that must have given the prime minister a boost; he was certainly milking it for all it was worth last night. The TV channels couldn’t get enough of him.’

  ‘Like you the night Ali died.’ My face remains expressionless. My sarcasm is lost on him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You hardly mentioned Ali after he died. The Dixon Trust had looked after him, Matt had been instrumental in getting him help, away from the drugs gangs, but you ignored all that. Instead, you chose to focus on arguing about who was buying the empty apartment block that Sandra Worthington was filming in. You were more obsessed about it being sold to wealthy Russian oligarchs who wouldn’t vote for you—’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It’s no secret that you wanted if for social housing so that you’d have more voters at the next election.’

  ‘That’s a ridiculous idea.’

  I smile. ‘The good news is that we’re not here to talk about the election and your track record.’

  ‘No? Well, that’s … good.’ Raymond shifts uncomfortably but still refuses to sit beside his wife. Instead he remains, standing awkwardly, looking at Mulhoon for support.

  I reach into my bag and pull out the dagger, lent to me this morning by Jeffrey Bonnington once the real identity of Liz Hunt became clear to us. I place it on their coffee table in the centre of the room.

  Raymond Harris stares at it.

  Arlene blinks.

  Mulhoon steps away from the fire.

  ‘This is the shah’s dagger that the gang leaders, who were shot yesterday, used as a talisman to frighten and intimidate their gangs. They preyed on lonely, isolated, and vulnerable children. They befriended kids, sometimes as young as ten or eleven years old. They’d buy them chips or sweets, talk to them, pretend to care, and take them shopping. They made them feel wanted, and they’d lure them into a false friendship, encouraging them into this cult, where they’d swear to protect each other. They were family. They’d never grass. The leaders pretended to make them feel safe, but what they did was to get the kids involved in selling drugs, making money, and sometimes they’d even have to prove themselves by maiming and killing others. Cheffing—’

  ‘That’s when they stab each other,’ Peter explains.

  ‘With this?’ Raymond asks, leaning forward. ‘Can I pick it up?’

  ‘Be careful. It’s very sharp,’ Peter warns.

  ‘Have you seen it before?’ I ask.

  Raymond shakes his head. ‘No, but it looks interesting – valuable?’

  ‘We’ll come back to that,’ I reply.

  ‘What does all this have to do with me? Is this about the Dixon Trust?’

  ‘What about you, Arlene? Have you seen this dagger before?’

  She shakes her head but doesn’t look at Raymond, who is examining it and reading the inscription on the side of the blade.

  Mulhoon watches them and continues to warm his backside against the fire, bouncing up and down on his heels.

  ‘Thr
ee weeks ago, Chief Inspector Mulhoon asked me to find this dagger. He believed that if we found it, it would help lead us to find the cult members and, more importantly, the head of the gang here in Islington. He’d already lost two undercover police officers, and he didn’t want to risk any more lives.’

  Mulhoon says, ‘I’ve just remembered, Raymond, I told you I was sending in two of my men undercover at that fundraising night you did.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think you did.’ Raymond frowns.

  ‘Did you tell anyone else?’ Mulhoon asks.

  Raymond shakes his head and then looks at Arlene, but she’s staring down at the table.

  I continue speaking, ‘This – the shah’s dagger – is worth over $3.3 million.’

  ‘My goodness.’ Raymond places the dagger back on the table as if it’s red hot, and then straightens up suddenly, smiling.

  ‘And we found the gang leaders who were killed yesterday.’

  ‘That’s excellent news. So, we can all be reassured that the Asian, and the Turk, no longer rule the drugs gangs in Islington. Excellent! The children will be safe. That’s fantastic news.’ Raymond beams around the room at that moment as if he’s campaigning for the election.

  ‘Well, it’s not that simple.’ I stare at him and his smile fades. ‘The thing is, this dagger became an important symbol – a weapon of fear. All the cult members had a tattoo of this dagger just here, under their heart.’ I point at my chest. ‘But the other point is that the Asian had no idea it was such a valuable dagger. It looks expensive, and that made him happy …’ I pause.

  ‘Where did he get it?’ Raymond asks.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. Did the Asian steal it, or did someone give it to him? Where did he get it?’

  Arlene focuses on her gripped hands, as if she’s in silent prayer.

  ‘This morning, a private collector who bought it at auction for $3.3 million contacted us. This is the one from his collection.’

  ‘Really!’ Raymond looks aghast.

  Mulhoon shifts uncomfortably on his toes, frowning. He knows that the dagger found at the crime scene yesterday is still in police custody.

  ‘There has to be a link between the private collector and the Asian, or someone who had the opportunity to steal the shah’s dagger and make not just one – but two – replicas.’

  ‘Two?’ Raymond frowns.

  Chief Inspector Mulhoon stops rocking.

  ‘Yes. The one that we recovered yesterday in Suffolk that the Asian had in his possession, and this one.’ I point to the one on the table. ‘We borrowed this earlier this morning from the private collector because – unfortunately – this is a replica.’

  ‘A replica?’ Raymond stares at the dagger before adding, ‘So where is the original dagger?’

  The silence in the room is broken only by a hissing log that crackles, breaks away, and crashes into the ash. Mulhoon glances down at the fire.

  Peter stands up. ‘I think your wife knows the answer to that,’ he says.

  ‘Arlene?’ Raymond stares at his wife.

  Arlene shakes her head but refuses to look up.

  I say, ‘I believe that by the time the Met have searched this house, and taken a statement from the craftsman in Camden who made the two replicas, and checked the bank transfers for payment, and also asked the private collector for a statement, in which he will say that for two weeks Arlene had a key and access to his property, and to his collection—’

  ‘What?’ Raymond steps back in surprise.

  ‘That’s NOT true!’ Arlene grabs the dagger and leaps up. She waves it threateningly at my face. ‘YOU know NOTHING!’

  I back away.

  ‘HE OWED ME.’ She waves the dagger and approaches me menacingly. She hisses, ‘What do you know? You have no idea. You meddle. You pry. You judge. You’re a nobody. I could buy and sell you. I—’ Peter’s arm crashes down on her wrist.

  Arlene screams, and the dagger drops on the carpet. I bend down and retrieve the dagger as Arlene nurses her hand.

  Raymond moves protectively to stand beside her. ‘Are you alright—’

  ‘STAY away from ME!’ she shouts.

  ‘Arlene? Is this all true?’

  ‘The private collector is Jeffrey Bonnington.’ I pass the dagger to Mulhoon. ‘He’s Arlene’s uncle. He had a problem a few years ago when his cleaner was ill. Arlene offered to find him a new one. And, as he was in Switzerland at the time and keen to build a relationship with his estranged niece, he remembers giving Arlene the keys to his house in Holland Park.’

  Raymond stares at his wife. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘He deserved it.’

  ‘He trusted you. He’s your uncle!’

  Arlene’s facial expression hasn’t changed, but now her eyes are angry. ‘He STOLE from us,’ Arlene spits. ‘He took it all from my mother – she got NOTHING!’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I say. ‘The point is, Arlene encouraged the cult – this gang crime. She recruited the Asian, and under Arlene’s instruction, he recruited children from the area. She wanted him to intimidate the kids from the estates. She created the fear, through the Asian and the Turk.’

  ‘Arlene?!’ Raymond cries.

  I continue, ‘After the raid near the canal, when the Asian chased me off the top of the high-rise building, the Asian came back to the area, and he hung around the estate again, intimidating the kids. He did it so that you, Raymond – through the Dixon Trust – would continue to publicly fight against crime, to keep the area free of drugs and gangs – basically to make you look good in the public eye.’

  ‘Is this true, Arlene?’ Raymond asks. ‘Did you know him? YOU knew the Asian?’

  Arlene doesn’t speak. Instead, she holds her sore wrist under her arm.

  Looking at Mulhoon, I say, ‘We have proof that Ali – one of the Parks – went to your constituency offices between five and five-thirty the night he came back from Morocco – the night he died. He wanted to speak to someone he could trust. Someone in a stronger position than Matt. Because, although Matt is kind and good, he doesn’t have any power. He went looking for Raymond. But you weren’t in your office that afternoon, yet by coincidence, Arlene was there. When Ali telephoned, she told him to come to the office. She offered to help him. Ali trusted her. He believed that Arlene would tell her husband everything and help him.

  ‘But she didn’t. Because, before Ali arrived at the office, Arlene had called the Asian. He waited outside for her instructions. Had Ali not said anything incriminating, she might have let him go. But because he was ready to tell the police about the Asian and the initiation ceremony, Arlene knew she had to do something. She couldn’t let Ali tell the police about the dagger, the cult, the tattoos, or the Asian. So, when Ali told her that he wanted to tell the police everything – because he wanted to join the Met – Arlene had Ali followed. She didn’t want Ali telling the police everything he knew about the gang. She didn’t want the Asian to be caught.’

  The room is silent.

  Raymond slowly digests the information and I wonder if it has crossed his mind before.

  ‘Was Arlene in your office that afternoon?’ Peter asks. ‘If you can’t remember, don’t worry. It will be easy to check the phone records. There will be someone who might remember Arlene was there.’

  ‘Well, my secretary, Pat, he would know …’

  Mulhoon says, ‘We will check.’

  ‘I remember … that night, we were going out for dinner …’ Raymond stares at Peter and then covers his face with his hands. ‘Oh no, Arlene, what have you done?’ he whispers.

  I face Arlene and look her in the eyes. ‘She murdered Ali, that’s what she’s done, as she has done with so many of the children from the estates.’

  Raymond shakes his head in denial. ‘This is impossible. Arlene. Please. Tell me it isn’t TRUE!’ he shouts. ‘You couldn’t be that STUPID!’

  ‘I did it for you, don’t you understand?’ she spits. ‘It’s always about YOU and
your political career. It’s what YOU wanted.’

  Mulhoon pulls his phone from his pocket and steps out of the lounge and into the hallway, leaving the door open, where I hear him speaking into his phone.

  Raymond continues, ‘It’s not what I wanted. There’s no way I wanted you to … do … any of this.’

  ‘You like being the hero. The man who saves the day—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But what?’ she says. Her doll-like facial expression is still unchanged, still a polite and surprised smile.

  ‘I never wanted, expected, you to do any of this—’ Raymond collapses onto the sofa with his head in his hands. ‘They’ll crucify me! The press will eat me alive. I’ll never survive this.’

  Arlene sits beside him. ‘They won’t. I’ll be here with you.’

  ‘You’re delusional, Arlene. You’re completely insane.’ He visibly recoils and pulls away from her.

  Mulhoon walks in with the two uniformed officers, who had been waiting in the car. One of them pulls out handcuffs and clips them swiftly around Arlene’s wrists.

  Over her shoulder, I smile at Peter and he winks back at me.

  * * *

  A week later, and six days before Christmas, it’s a bitterly cold December day, but inside the chapel of the crematorium it’s warm and, overpoweringly, it smells of lilies.

  The pews are full, and people are even standing at the back. I recognise the Parks and greet Monika and Adam, and Lisa and Joe, with a quick hug.

  Mustafa, Ali’s father, is in the front row with friends and family, and I assume it’s Ali’s mother on the other side of the aisle, at the front, who cries throughout the short service.

  Peter stands beside me as we listen to the tributes spoken by Matt in a solemn and sad tone. He talks about the change parkour has made to all of their lives and how the Dixon Trust will continue to be a place of shelter in the turbulent world in which we live. He briefly mentions the government, and he hopes that the prime minister will abide by his pledge to keep the streets safe, increase policing, and invest in those who need help and care. Ali, he tells everyone, wanted to be a policeman. He was a fine, honest, reliable, and trustworthy young man.